Global Warming
by Nonrealistic Barrier
Summary: He stared at the mangled figure before him so intently it made Roadhog uncomfortable. The way that he leaned in, reached out and touched it made him worry that the kid was about to do something incredibly stupid. Junkrat didn't stop touching the strange corpse and instead started moving its joints, observing how it moved. "I think I can fix it," he decided. Suddenly, it moved.
1. Silence

_**A/N: I wrote this on my phone at 4:30 in the morning before I went to sleep. Here I am, sitting on my bed, attempting for the billionth time to write a story that I've been rolling over and over in my brain for the past seven or eight months with Excedrin in my system, ear plugs in my ears, a dim headache at the forefront of my brain, and the grueling realization that I go back to work in twelve hours after a week-long vacation spent six and a half hours away. I'm tired, my head hurts, I have work, I feel gross, but I feel fairly motivated to write. On my phone. As I have typed Numb up, when there is literally my laptop three inches from my feet and my phone is at twenty percent battery.**_

 _ **I will write this out. I will finish this chapter, and I will post it and feed off of reviews and excitement. I will give a taste of my genius to you who indulge in my first Overwatch fanfiction-this misshapen putty of plot half-formed in my mind-and absorb the energy from those of you who like and comment and subscribe for more of this terrible pirate story that's been brewing in my mind for what feels like centuries.**_

 _ **With that, I leave you to enjoy. And hopefully I don't get stuck on the first paragraph yet again. And if there are mistakes, remember: I wrote this on my phone, tired. I'll review it tomorrow or the day after on my computer and fix it. That said, do let me know of errors or inconsistencies. I feed off of criticism.**_

* * *

There was a brief period of time where the bar was filled with a blissful quiet. The servers picked up half-empty plates and glasses that were once full of alcohol and set them in their tubs to take into the kitchen, and the stragglers of the lunch crowd disappeared for the day, leaving the restaurant employees to clean up after their own messes, wipe off tables of the mess they made, and leave tips less dependent on how much they had and more dependent on the value of their character. The waiters and waitresses shuffled behind and around him, quiet in their own right and accepting of the shift, and rarely spoke except to each other, eager for their relief to come so they could go home to whatever family they had or whatever empty house they kept.

Roadhog didn't pay any mind to them, focused more on the task of enjoying his beer, as he'd done for the past couple of days he spent in this shithole of a town down by the sea. He listened vaguely to them as they talked about their tips and talked shit about other employees who weren't there that day and talked about how late their relief was and how shitty some of their tables were. It was boring, to say the least, but it was still quieter than it was earlier. The occasional person came in and the host seated them, and the servers complained to each other about the host doing his job when he was back by the host stand-very monotonous, petty things that was the only background noise he could listen to at the moment.

The real shitstorm that happened behind the scenes was funny, to say the least. He knew just by hearing the door open and the number of footsteps that came crowding in that he was about to hear more complaining, more whining and bitching. He heard behind his back the host greeting them in the friendliest voice he could manage, sounding tired and dreading just the same.

"Hello, welcome to _Snapper's_ _Seafood_ _Palace_ ," he said, cheerfully as possible. "How are you all today?"

"There will be twenty-seven of us." The woman spoke with an accent Roadhog couldn't place and an undertone in her voice that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He glanced over his shoulder briefly, looking over at the entrance, and saw what was unmistakably a large crew of pirates filtering in two-by-two through the double doors. The pirates wore all manner of clothing and were a variety of different sizes and shapes, with maybe half of them hosting a wide array of prosthetics.

The woman who spoke, though-simply _looking_ at her sent a shudder down his spine and caused a queasy feeling to blossom in his stomach. It was the immaculate manner that she dressed in, all pressed and formal, and the way she carried herself like the captain of a Naval vessel-the clean, pale face and the searing acuity of her eyes.

"Do you have a reservation with us?" The host asked, as he was counting menus.

"No," she answered, her tone bland and fascinatingly devoid of emotion or interest.

"Will there be any children?"

"No," she said again, just as before. The host set the menus to the side a moment later, and he excused himself so that he could set the tables up.

The pirates were already beginning to grow rowdy by the time the host left the front. Already Roadhog could hear no more than twenty feet away from him the servers bickering over who was going to take the table-because no one wanted to take thirty people when they were supposed to be off the clock fifteen minutes ago.

The silence was broken by the sound of excited chatter, in a restaurant that didn't particularly care to have them here as customers. It irked Roadhog to have his silence broken, though the context almost made up for it with curiosity.

The woman's eyes turned to leer into his.

In an instant, he felt his blood run cold from the sheer intensity of her stare, and he wondered how long she knew he was staring. There was a strong possibility that she knew the whole time, and was only waiting until the time was convenient for her to analyze the situation. For her to, essentially, make a silent threat.

Roadhog wasn't an idiot. He wasn't going to take on a thirty-man crew in the middle of a public place. He grunted dismissively and returned to his drink, staring at the bottom of his glass and noticing only now how tightly he was clenching it, so tightly that his knuckles were beginning to whiten. He forced his hand to relax, moving it away momentarily to flex his fingers. No, he wasn't going to take on an entire crew by himself here. He'll save that for the sea.

* * *

Within the hour, the crew filled half the restaurant with noise and chatter. Jovial noises rang throughout the din, and discussions between the lot of them grew from trips down memory lane to more current, more recent, more _immediate_ events. The bartender busied herself to make the orders for all of the pirates, filling glass upon glass with beer and wine and rum and ale, and Roadhog continued sitting at the bar, deciding that he may as well listen in to the gossip before he left the bar and this miserable little town forever.

So Roadhog listened. Finding potentially useful or interesting information was like finding golden coins in a bale of hay while blindfolded, but he listened all the same and came to catch up on some topics he was curious about for the past couple of weeks.

"They're testing out a new breed of ship," someone indistinguishable said. Her words slurred slightly, melding together and a bit difficult to understand. "Some kind of... tank thing, from what I've heard from Earnest." Amidst exclamations of disbelief and dismissal, she exclaimed: "No no no, I swear it's true! Mates, I _saw_ the pictures _._ It was so bizarre-all cannonballs made of light and somesuch! I don't know how they do it. It's like fucking magic."

It sounded like something Volskaya Industries might attempt to cook up for the Navy, but he wasn't certain about the whole 'cannonballs made of light' idea. It was so bizarre and far-fetched that he snorted, finishing off his shark fillet and by now only biding his time before deciding it was time to leave. There was a possibility that it was just an exaggeration to get more attention.

Silk and wood was as much a necessary resource as ever, and the value of electronic components finally came down a notch.

They didn't speak of anything else that caught his interest, though, so after a while he stood to his feet and turned to leave. It was nearing five o'clock by this point, and if he knew pirates well enough, then he knew that they'd probably stay for a few hours longer. The longer they stayed, the more they'll drink, the louder they'll get and the more nonsense they'll spout out. The only thing he heard in passing as he left was someone asking something about valuable cargo, and the bright but inattentive and delayed voice of the hostess as she called for him to 'have a great day' halfway through the door.

He felt the woman's eyes on him the whole way out, felt the back of his neck stand on end. It was more irritating than anything else, and he paused outside of the window, turning to leer back at her over his shoulder. Intimidation was a game, and he would not be cowed so easily into submission. She leered back with just as much intensity, narrowing her unnaturally, inhumanly amber eyes. Roadhog scowled, clenching his jaw and baring his teeth at her, canines bared to the wind. It was an intended message.

 _I did not leave because of you._

Her expression didn't change except for what felt like minutes but was truly moments later, where one of her crew members retrieved her attention over some matter or another, and Roadhog continued along his way, snorting derisively. It was only when he passed the last window of the restaurant that he began to relax and breathe in the salty tang of the ocean, gazing about to take in his surroundings.

 _Snapper's_ was located on the outskirts of a town located on an island just outside of Alpha Atlantica. It was a popular place for thrill-seeking tourists and pirates alike, mostly because enforcement was firm enough to punish pirates for misdeeds but loose enough for it to generally not be a problem, and the close proximity to pirates was deemed safe enough for tourists who were eager for a change of pace. Aside from that, the town was bleak, grey and uninteresting, and the only reason Roadhog decided to stay as long as he did was because of his need to lay low for a good week or so. He was planning on leaving today, anyways-the fact that he heard this gossip from some pirates was fortunate but unnecessary. He made a beeline for the docks, rolling over chores he'll need to do when he got there and what he'd need to check and plotting out his course. Perhaps he'd sail over to the Thaislands and take advantage of the lingering price of silk, carry it to the islands along the Pacificas and see where it went from there.

Roadhog continued to walk for a short while, humming a quiet tune on his full belly and feeling rather optimistic about his plan. He sauntered towards the docks in this fairly good mood, but brought himself slowly to a pause, coming to a standstill, catching sight of a certain ship hitched at the dock.

It wasn't there this morning, if he recalled correctly. The ship was an absolutely beautiful and massive galley, with the most distinctive trait at this distance being the thin, spindly black masts that supported heavy sails, looking lined with velvet or silk. She'd be a beauty to see on the sea, he was certain. Black sails unfurled against just-as-black masts, they'd be practically invisible on nights when the moon went unseen in the sky, and a terrifyingly visible and imposing sight during the day. It reminded him, ironically, of an assassin.

Curious, he continued on to the docks, walking the remaining couple blocks with a question at the forefront of his mind demanding an answer. When he got close, he was disappointed. No-like many other ships traveling the ocean these days, this assassin ship wasn't made of wood. Instead, it favored a lightweight, dark metal that was amazingly smooth. It'd cause little drag in the water if the design was consistent all around. It was truly an impressive ship-a deadly assassin designed to strike first and without warning.

It suddenly reminded him of the woman. Realization struck.

This was _her_ ship. Whoever that woman was, exactly, this ship belonged to her, and it was shockingly well-made for a mere pirate's ship. It cost a lot to get her this way, looked horribly custom-made.

And it _sounded_ almost empty.

He remembered what the pirate said as he left suddenly-something about important cargo. If the cargo was important to such a wealthy pirate, then surely it was worth something, right? He recalled the look in her eyes-the underlying threat behind them, the analytical severity-and decided, in that moment, to take it up as a challenge before he left the island altogether. Besides, it seemed fairly empty-not completely, but enough to work with.

But first, he had to stop by his own ship, gather his own resources so he could take on whatever it was they had to offer. While he could take on an entire crew in the middle of the ocean all alone, he wasn't going to chance being killed immediately without his backup.


	2. English Persuasion

She was a fine beauty with arms that reached out to the sky like trees, the cloth clinging to her wrists and rolled down to her elbows as she rested. Her body was the lightest shade of birch that he ever did see, arms shining with the sleekness of red mahogany, while the cloth of her sails gleamed in the midnight blue of the setting sky like they were made of luminescent cotton candy. Her flesh was spotted with several patches of lighter tones, an ever-shifting masterpiece that she wore long and proud throughout the hard and difficult years that they've known each other, numerous scars that painted her skin like a watercolor masterpiece and never deterred her from craving more. When he saw her, reclining upon her bed, he just had to stop for how beautiful she was, how she took away his breath every time he saw her.

It really was a shame that she wasn't a real person, because he would have loved on her sweetly all the same.

She was seventy-two feet in length, sleek and mature in her age, the polish of her wooden masts a supple mahogany while her hull was stained the sultriest birch that he ever did see. The sails were furled against the wind, the ropes binding her to port and the anchor wedged in the portside sand and rubble. They kept her grounded while she rested, allowed her to recline in her bed beside the docks as she slept so that she wouldn't fall to the side and get lost in the weight of the endless ocean. Compared to the woman's ship, she was much smaller. Compared to others', she was of sufficient size for a small crew to handle.

His hand gripped the railing as he swung one leg over her side, gracelessly boarding her before beginning to make his way below deck to collect his back-up. She held him sure and steady as his feet thudded against her weathered wood and pushed open the door, descending down the stairs. A long corridor spanned before him, rooms to the left and to the right, four on either side. He opened the first to his right and entered, shoving his bulk through his just-too-small door, shouldering his way in to the captain's quarters. It was larger than every room except the stock room downstairs, partly to accommodate his size and partly for his own luxury. The walls throughout the ship were uniform and built of solid wood, every room above water gifted with a porthole to view the outside world.

It was his own private, sheltered abode, never before seen by anyone other than him, and she guarded it with her very life. And he was grateful for it.

Because he was certain that he would literally die if anyone saw how absolutely filled his room was with heart-aching cuteness.

He reached next to the door frame and flicked the lights on, illuminating the room with all manner of adorable memorabilia accumulated over years of seafaring. His entire collection of collectable Pachimari from the boarder of Beta Pacifica and Tau Iota were nestled in a pile by the head of his bed, looking up at him from a mountain of fabric smiles, in all shapes, colors and designs. A few larger ones sat on a chair, at the side of the bed, one on the table next to the door to guard against intruders. While predominantly Pachimari-inhabited, a couple of other nick-knacks populated the shelves. Stolen pigs, a couple of piggy banks, one of those boxes with the sole purposes of turning itself off.

Roadhog turned to Sergeant Octivia and returned her salute, greeting her. She smiled back and saluted, pressed police uniform as neat and immaculate as ever. She looked up at him with beady eyes, blushing heartily and sheriff's badge proudly displayed on her chest in smooth felt and fabric. He lowered his hand, staring down at her for a moment, before reaching over to her and picking her up with both hands, giving her a soft, gentle squeeze.

 _Squeak!_

" _Oh,"_ he breathed, letting out his breath before wrapping his arms around the Pachimari, hugging it tightly to his chest, causing it to squeak again. His eyes turned to the Pachimari laying on his bed, and he hurried over to them, flopping face-first onto the bed and wrapping his arms around as many of the tiny Pachimari as possible, causing a hearty chorus of squeaking to sing delightedly around the room. The soft, plush fabric of his private treasures pressed against his skin, a breathy laugh leaving his throat as he buried his face in their softness.

It was absolutely mind-blowing how they became so popular in Tau Iota, but he was absolutely beyond complaining.

Roadhog breathed in the smell of stuffing and joy, closing his eyes and letting himself bask in the afterglow. He sighed, chest rattling softly. If he could, he would spend forever and a day in this room, surrounded by his cute onion children and the care and love he poured into his beautiful ship.

The woman's ship echoed in the forefront of his memory—a sudden flash of dark, clawing masts and a brooding atmosphere—and regretfully, he pulled himself away from his sweethearts, setting them neatly back in place and promising himself that once he set the course, he'd come back down and indulge in his guilty pleasure further. For now—business.

He turned to the portholes to check that the mechanical shutters were closed tight, nodding to himself with satisfaction. He stood to his feet, smoothing out his shirt, before he caught sight of his weapons and his mask. He walked over to them and picked them up, setting them to the side before moving to change his clothes to something more practical and battle-ready than the largest T-shirt he had that just barely managed to cover the tattoo emblazoned on his belly.

A tattoo that he'll bare to the world proudly for everyone to see.

For the time being, he'll revert to his usual wear—jeans that fit just barely with a belt that was loose as could possibly be, before reaching over to grab his weapons and secure them at his hip. One was a modified shotgun, designed to fire metal scraps that were always in abundance after destroying hostile ships, and the other was his trusty hook, secured to an automated chain. He shoved the gun in its holster, set the hook's system up on his belt, and double-checked the amount of scrap in the pouch by his side before turning to grab his mask.

He pulled the gas mask on roughly, breathing in a deep breath of air that eased his lungs, before threading his fingers through his hair so he could tie it up. The muskiness he breathed reminded him that it was about time to clean the filters, and he decided he'd take care of it when he came back—it wasn't a pressing issue, anyway. Once that was done, it was all about collecting his backup before leaving to destroy the woman's ship.

He turned to his prized collectables, small enough to fit comfortably in his pocket and within the palm of his hand. He observed the thirty-or-so onion octopi congregated amongst themselves and stepped up to observe them, rolling his hook in his hand thoughtfully. The urge to sink into the bed of Pachimari struck him again. He sighed, shaking his head, before beginning to shuffle through the Pachimari, carefully selecting out his favorite one of the day. After a while, he decided on one with a mean face and a red ninja outfit on that he clipped onto the loop of his hook.

Now he was equipped with the proper gear and his back-up. _Now,_ he was ready.

* * *

The plan was simple and consisted of three steps: Board, kill, loot. He usually didn't need to elaborate further on his plans, particularly when the ship in question had only a handful of people remaining on board to defend it.

Despite the fact that he brought Sneakymari with him, he had no intention of hiding his presence. It was impossible for a man his size to sneak around silently and stealthily, so it was an absolute waste of energy to even try. Instead, he picked them off one-by-one, snagging them with his giant hook and pulling them in close before giving them a face full of scrap before they could even react. Before long, their calls and screams disappeared, and Roadhog was left in the wake of fifteen men and woman who had no idea what they were dealing with and suffered for it.

He tore cloth from their clothes and used it to clean his hook as he continued along his way below deck, striding past the mangled corpses of headless pirates whose' brains were splattered all over the walls. His presence on this God-forsaken ship was stained upon her walls forever, now—stains that might be cleaned off but never forgotten. It was a shame he wouldn't be here when they returned—he wanted to see the reaction on that woman's face when she saw what he did to her crew.

His arm and his belly stung with the pain of being peppered with a couple of bullets. He'll remove them back at his ship first and bandage them up correctly.

Roadhog traveled farther down to the cargo hold, curious and eager to see what this 'special cargo' was, and as he leafed through it, he came to the growing realization that the majority of the cargo that they already had could be considered 'special' by other pirates' standards. They had yards upon yards of silk that felt absolutely heavenly to his fingers, thick beams and planks of wood that they probably got from the American Plateau, and an entire row of finely-aged wines with origins everywhere across the world. Half of them were from places he never even heard of. He reached over and pulled a bottle from the wine rack, holding it up to read the make and the year and found it curious that he couldn't even read the language. Curious still when he popped it open and lifted his mask to smell it, a scent of delicate berry-sweetness, before tilting it back to gulp it down.

He never considered himself a wine person, and this didn't change his mind—it was sweet with a very bitter aftertaste that made him gag afterwards—but it was his loot, damnit, and he would take whatever the fuck he wanted from this miserable excuse of a ship.

The silk was laid out in many colors, mainly various shades of red and purple. He grabbed a roll of it, lifting it up and feeling the smooth texture under his fingers. Under the light provided by the fixtures, the one he held gleamed a pretty shade of violet, soft and light and airy. It was fancy, beautiful. Silk was a precious commodity afforded to few but the highest, a commodity that pirates took upon themselves to steal from Tau Iota and wear it on their clothes with pride. He pulled at it lightly, testing the seams and seeing how durable it was.

A few minutes later, four rugged purple sacks hit the crate. He discarded the rest, finding no more immediate need for it.

He heard it as he was loading up the sacks.

At first, he wasn't sure if he was imagining it or if it really did exist. He paused, setting the wine on the sack, listening closer. The voice didn't disappear, instead deciding to continue; he grunted, equipping himself before following the voice to its source.

It was hard to tell what the voice was saying—it sounded like absolute jibberish to his ears, slurred in an almost exhausted way, stumbling over the air like the words of a drunken sailor. Nonetheless he managed to follow it farther into the cargo hold—deeper down the rabbit hole—before it led down yet another flight of stairs. The voice was cracked and raspy, calling out throughout as much of the ship as it could reach with indecipherable words that probably didn't even exist. He huffed, not hesitating to continue, intent on hunting down this sole survivor. His jaw set behind his mask, his hand clenching the handles of his hook and gun, and when he reached the base of the stairs, he reached to the side and flicked the luminescent switch.

He blinked, stopping abruptly. At the very bottom of the ship, in the deepest part of her belly, lay the source behind the frustrating aura emanating from the ship, the secret behind the passive coldness of the woman herself. On either side of Roadhog spanned an expanse of prison cells—cells that extended from where the stairs began to the forefront of the ship. The lights themselves were dim and oppressive, illuminating nothing more than what they reached from the center of the broad walkway. Roadhog began to walk forward carefully, gazing around, listening to the metal as it groaned around him and feeling the gentle sway of the ocean as soft waves rocked her belly gently. The entire place was meant to be unnerving from the very second prisoners were forced down here, and it was meant to stay unnerving until they were removed for whatever purpose they were needed for.

Roadhog lifted a hand and tilted his mask back, sniffing the air and wrinkling his nose distastefully. The air smelled of sharp metal and copper, the distinct stench of rotten blood flooding everything. The smell got stronger the closer he got to the voice. He pulled his mask down and breathed the filtered air before turning his head in the prisoner's direction. Because of course it would be just his luck, that the 'special cargo' that was mentioned was actually a person.

Or rather, what was _once_ a human. It trembled and shook in a tight, boney ball on the floor, laying in a pool of its own dirty blood, talking and occasionally yelling out pure and utter incomprehensible gibberish that Roadhog didn't feel like bothering to translate. Even with its arms wrapped around its stomach, back to the bars, he could see the ribs, the harsh cant of its hip bones, the foundation of its spine. Blood heavily stained the entirety of its body, dry and caked and likely rashes underneath even despite the wet patches from fresher wounds. He tilted his head to the side, gazing down at the thing on the floor, the prisoner of cold-hearted pirates that evidently wanted _something_ from what was once a man or a woman.

He snorted: Whatever that _something_ was, it wasn't for him. He wasn't going to grab a rat and bring it aboard and have to worry about feeding it and nursing it to health. With that in mind, he turned to leave, careless to what got it landed in this sad mess that it was in and careless of his ability to get it out of said situation.

He was fully prepared to leave it to die, starve and wither away to nothing but bones until he heard it _talk._

When it talked to him, its voice was just as raspy, as high-pitched as it was before—but it was louder now, filled with purpose. "'Ey, big guy!" it called, and he stopped abruptly. _Familiar. It sounded familiar._ He turned.

The rat was turning itself to the bars as best it could, struggling and grunting to pull itself over, talking all the while with words that were now more clear. "Wait wait 'ait 'ait," it was saying, up until it grabbed the bars and pulled itself up a little to sit up. It had a long, goblin-like face and greasy hair that stuck up every which way, bald between thick chunks. Its body trembled with its own thinness as it looked up at him, eyes an indistinguishable color, bushy eyebrows drawn over narrowed eyes, before it offered up a weak smile. "You aren' leavin' me, righ?"

What a sad, miserable creature it was. Coated almost head-to-toe in blood, and in wounds that would most certainly leave permanent scars for years after. Its voice was so cracked by what must have been from a lack of water that it could barely form comprehensive words and its body was so shriveled that it was practically only bones at this rate, anyways. A younger Roadhog would probably have taken pity on him.

He grunted and turned to continue leaving. Roadhog already had a plan—get in, get shit, get out—and while it was a _simple plan,_ it was _his plan_ nonetheless. He didn't consider a human to be cargo in any sense at all, so a human was not _loot_ , and it didn't bother him. The rat was stupid enough to be captured by pirates for one reason or another. Not his problem.

"Oi oi oi," it exclaimed suddenly. The bars of the door trembled as it shook it back and forth, clanging against the otherwise silent din. "D' you not know English? We not there? Korean? _Algesseo? Ihaehaenni?_ Please don' leave me here!"

Roadhog grunted and continued to walk away, making effort he could to block the sound of the creature's voice despite how frustratingly _familiar_ it sounded. Its voice broke from time to time, and it continued to speak even as he left and even as some piece of his brain struggled to remember. He picked a few more bottles of alcohol as his mind entertained the voice as an anonymous face at a bar. He considered hearing it in passing at some far-off port as he selected a fair assortment of food, the contemplation feeling a little more right. Eventually, unable to come to a conclusion, he shrugged and finished packing, leaving the talking rat in the prisoner's hold and boarding his own ship, preparing to disembark.

He untied her from the dock and roused her from her sunbathing, beginning to raise the anchor. The anchor was the only reminder from _Kunekune_ all those years ago, the baby girl that'd been his first boat out to the ocean and lasted him nearly fourteen years of service. The anchor was the only salvageable part that remained after the…

After the….

Roadhog dropped the anchor.

* * *

 **A/N: I know that Junkrat has a pirate skin now, but I... don't particularly like it. The outfit is perfectly fine, but the hair seems so out of place, and I don't get why Blizzard changed his peg leg to a hook-it seems like more trouble than it's worth... oh, well. The eye patch looks pretty cool.**

 **The story is also cross-posted on as well!**

 **I'm debating adding a wattpad, too, but I don't know...**

 **Remember to review, please! Feed me with the motivation to bring this to completion! I hope you enjoy! Thank you for reading!**


	3. Copper On His Tongue

He knew of the taste of blood. The coppery taste was how he clung to his mind. He wondered very faintly if the floor could taste the blood that he lay in, rotting and degrading his mind. The last dregs of sanity lay far beyond reach, and no matter how he tried to grasp, the bars blocked him. His breath made his ribs creak and groan. It felt like every single bone in his body was broken—he could barely move, for all the pain that he lay in.

It was a wonder how he was still alive: He should have died maybe weeks or months ago—he didn't know. He lost track of time quickly here, the hours and days molding into some misshapen creature. Every single breath he drew was torture, his stomach tearing itself apart from inside. His shoulders shook, body one tight knot, pressed together—struggling for some semblance of warmth. The countless scars that they made were coated under blood and flesh, and they pulled at his skin with every movement.

Between periods of unconsciousness, he forced himself to watch and listen. It was more to keep himself awake than it was to escape, though: Even when these monsters wearing the skins of humans left him to his own, he didn't have the keys to unlock the door, and he didn't' have anywhere to go.

Through a brief period of inactivity, rousing himself from unconsciousness again, he heard a scream. He only dimly realized that his wardens were rushing out of the cells, leaving him alone, abandoned. His gaze lifted skyward, staring up at the ceiling, too weary to allow his chest to swell. He really only started paying attention to the sounds distantly above him when the yelling turned to screams turned to gunfire, and then there was absolute silence. A silence that didn't feel like it belonged.

At first, he wondered if the intruder was dead. The ship was silent, unnatural, and filled his gut with dread. He waited for minutes that felt like hours for someone to return, but no one came downstairs. A single set of loud footsteps thudded above him. His dread breathed a hope that he thought was long dead. He could get out of here.

Whoever was above him didn't know that he was down here. His mind raced for options, picking through them one by one, shivering and blinking as he tried to stay awake through the exhaustion of adrenaline that came and went like the tide. Finally his mind settled for the only one that made sense, and he drew in a deep breath. Then, as loud as he could manage without destroying his voice, he began to talk.

His mouth ran on autopilot, talking about anything and everything. The coppery tang to his tongue made him gag, have to roll onto his side as his body shuddered and shook and tried to vomit the empty contents of his stomach. At least the accompanying spit soothed the dryness of his mouth and throat a little.

After a while, he began to worry that he wasn't being heard. His voice softened, and he curled into a ball, mumbling and shivering. Unconsciousness itched behind his eyes, offering a temporary reprieve from his sickening pain. He closed his eyes.

This wasn't _fair._

He had to keep talking. He had to _escape_ and he couldn't let unconsciousness claim victory. Every now and then, he willed his voice to be louder, every time he felt sleep trying to grip him, talking through the pulse of agony throughout his body. Every time he felt hope slip from his grip, he willed it to stay just a little longer— _just a little longer._

It was probably hopeless by this point. His throat was dry and sore and felt like he swallowed a pint of boiling water. His body was in such a sorry state that he wanted to scream. Whoever this person was—whoever his _savior_ was—he _prayed_ they'd come soon.

He was almost about to give up.

Then came the grunt, the shuffle, the pounding of footsteps beginning—just _beginning_ to leave. He instantly turned as best he could, hissing and crying out words of delight. He crowed out a greeting, crackling with newlyfound energy and delight. "Ey, big guy!"

Here! Here! The man of the decade was here! His fingers clawed into the ground, straining and grunting as he struggled to come nearer to the bars until he paused, looking up at the massive mammoth man. His heart was racing in his chest, taking in the sight of armor against his right shoulder to the halo the light above gave his white hair. A flare of hope blossomed in his belly, surging throughout every nerve of his body, pushing out a breathy laugh of delight. Maybe God did exist.

He stared back at him through his gas mask—at least, he _hoped_ he did. He couldn't see his eyes. He could be staring off at nothing. The caged man's fingers moved to grasp at the bars. He offered what he hoped was his best smile.

"You aren' leavin' me, righ?" he asked, nervously.

The man with the pig gas mask stared at him. It was impossible to see his eyes through the empty, dark lenses it as he searched desperately for shreds of humanity. He snorted, turning away.

Panic seized his chest, hand moving of their own accord to pull and shake at the bars, rattling his cage, crying out as loud as he could. "Oi oi oi! D'you not know English? We not there? We not there? Korean? _Algesso? Ihaeheni?_ Please don't leave me here!"

"I don't want to die here! I can't!"

"I have a treasure! It's all yours, mate! Don't go!"

"Please, for the love of God, help me!"

But the man was already gone.

And he was back here, alone, again.

He eventually fell silent, laying limply on the ground, squeezing his eyes shut and gasping for air. His breath made his ribs creak and groan. The world was filled with the echo of silence, a cavernous space pulsating with bodily torment and copper tainting the air. He knew the taste of blood. It seemed he was going to know it more.

He cursed groggily whatever God there was that decided to laugh at the cards he'd been dealt. He cursed tiredly the name of the man that left him here under his breath. He cursed vaguely the woman that personally beat the living shit out of him every other day. He cursed himself. He cursed a lot of things, come to think of it…

It could have been great. He could have been set for life. He could have….

" _You."_

A deep, low, graveling, unfamiliar voice cut through him. It punctuated the air like a bludgeon to the head, spoken with such contempt and disgust it made him wince. He opened his eyes.

The man stood on the other side of the door from him, leering down at him with what he could only assume to be contempt to match his tone. Despite the twisting in his stomach, his heart thudded. He smiled again, hopeful.

 _He came back._

Again, he gave him his best smile. Again, the man didn't speak, though the low rumbling of a growl dribbled out of his throat and rolled over him, like a heavy fog. The sensation sent chills down his spine. It caused ice cubes to form in his gut. "Are you here to help me?"

He grumbled, hard and low. His smile began to gradually disappear, shifting effortlessly into unease and discontent. He began to think that perhaps… it wouldn't be as easy as he hoped. The man stepped closer, staring him down. Through a haze of panic, words spilled from his mouth as they often did.

"I have a treasure," he tried. Fingers gripped the metal bars hesitantly, shivering with cold. "We can split it! Uh, ninety-ten?"

The man grumbled in his throat again, and he winced, indignant. "Oi, mate, it's a _big_ treasure," he wheezed. "It's more 'n enough. Right?"

He reached over his shoulder and pulled from his back what looked like a large, sawn-off shotgun. His breath hitched in his throat and he cringed, swallowing dryly. "Okay, okay, uh… thirty for you?—Fine, you drive a hard bargain! We'll split even!"

The man growled a lot. His voice was even a growl, low and rough. "You," he said again. He blinked in confusion, brain foggy and incomprehensible.

"What? Do I know you?"

He wouldn't be surprised if he did—his memory was always spotty when it came to people and faces and names, and more often than not he found himself coming across people he met before on other islands. The thought made his stomach clench—because now he might never be able to even see another island in his life. It might all end here, with shotgun shells pelting through his head. And nowhere to run. And his life's work in the hands of the enemy. The man knew him—it was a matter of whether they were on friendly terms or not now. His mind scrambled to try to recollect if he'd seen him before, but couldn't find any familiar images.

His mind scrambled to recollect if he'd heard his voice before, but nothing came to mind.

His eyes flickered to the gun he held in his massive hands.

Realization dawned like a rock threatening to choke him.

"If you're gonna kill me, then just fucking do it!" he exclaimed, voice cracking with the force, with the pitch, with his surge of dread. If he had any tears left, he would be crying. "I ain't got my treasure, the fuckin' bitch is gonna beat me halfway to death again—it'd be a goddamn mercy, anyway!" He choked on a dry sob, pressing his forehead against the ground, against his blood, against the bars. He didn't have anything to his name—his treasure—his _dream_ that he had been chasing for years and years and years was out of his reach, he didn't have any chance of escaping with his life, and staying here wasn't going to get him anywhere except in a land of more pain—death would be a mercy, a fucking _mercy._ _She_ even said that she would give it to him if he told her where his treasure was, and now if he _knew,_ he was sure he would _tell her if only to make it stop._

But he _didn't know,_ and he was _hurting_ and _hungry_ and _tired_ and he was _tired of this_ and he was _ready for it to end._ He made up his mind—if he didn't blow his fucking brains out all over this goddamn floor, he was going to _bite_ himself to death, or _piss him off so much that he would,_ or—or—

" _Bark."_

He jolted and looked up, startled. "What?"

What did he even say?

"Like a dog."

His jaw clenched, and he leered up at him as best he could. It was absolutely impossible to see the expression on his face, hidden behind his mask though it was—but he could have sworn that he heard something in his tone. Amusement. As if he was amused by seeing him curled and begging on the ground.

The fight was beaten out of him for now, the temper that would normally flare tired and exhausted. With a sigh, he sank down further to the floor, hand slackening on the bars and falling down. _He_ was tired. Exhausted. If this was what it took to fucking _die_ and get this shit over with, who was he to complain? It wasn't like he had any dignity left to his name, and his treasure was far beyond his reach.

"Woof."

" _Louder."_

He closed his eyes and sighed, wondering why he was even bothering at this point. _"Woof. Woof."_

He felt the last sandy dregs of dignity that he didn't realize he had slip from his fingers as the man chortled. He shifted, moved. Before long, he was half-convinced that he'd left again. This was Hell. His own personal Hell.

A gunshot. Loud. Broken. Subtle clattering.

Then a heavy warmness on his arm, an unexpected kind that made him jolt abruptly and reflexively kick out at the source. Even if he wanted to fight for his life, his body was too sluggish to do anything except be a nuisance. When his eyes snapped open, he was being lifted, hefted effortlessly under the arm of the man wearing the gas mask. His body was too exhausted to keep up. He was bleeding again from his back. His mind began to fade as he closed his eyes.

Jamison Fawkes had always run on the assumption that he would go out not with a whisper, but with a bang. And yet, this seemed like the quietest way to go—with a whimper and not a whisper.

* * *

The rat was asleep in a hammock below deck, body practically bound in bandages and heavy with disinfectants. His body was clean now, the blood washed away over the course of an hour—underneath lie half of a human, naked, starved, and absent of one of his arms and legs. The blood hid away pallid skin stained by rashes and a shock of electric yellow hair that stuck up everywhere. There were countless wounds on his back that'd become scars over time, bones broken and sprained from an undetermined period of abuse.

He made sure to take care of his 'guest' after departing the dock, weighing anchor and unfurling her delicate sails to catch the wind to the great unknown. It was only when he was confident in the course of his destination that he took care of the rat, bathing him and wrapping him firmly in bandages after injecting him with medicine he looted from a ship on the sea a couple of months ago. He didn't have any IV packs or drips, so he neglected that entirely, instead keeping in mind to keep him on a strictly liquid diet until he started to get better.

He checked the course of _Kunekune_ every thirty minutes before checking on the rat briefly, and then he went to do his own thing—which consisted mostly of planning, and thinking. And he had a lot of both to consider now.

And that included how small the planet was, that he ran into that bastard again.

Roadhog told himself after the fucking stunt he pulled that if he ever saw him again, he would kill him—but unfortunately the damn rat was right in that it would be a favor. A favor was the last thing he wanted to grant to him, so he took him on board, the dim vestiges of a plan forming in the back of his mind.

He had a rat on-board now—a rat whose name he didn't recall but whose face and whose voice made him want to kill. He scratched at his brain as he sat on-deck, staring off into the distance with a cold beer in hand, watching as the sun set off in the distance. Trying to deduct reasoning from vague words heard at bars, straining to remember ideas that he heard in far-off lands. Because there was a link somewhere.

A treasure. That was the key. The Unknown Treasure—the gossip spread throughout the sea like wildfire, the imaginations of dreamers painting wild images and ideas of what it could possibly be. It was said to be priceless, worth billions of any currency imaginable, taken with a grain of salt by any sailor or pirate that wandered the ocean. That is, until it reached the ears of the Armada, and then everyone was eager for it and the one person who knew where that treasure was.

Maybe…

He snorted. It was amusing, to say the least—the idea that this rat that he found in the cells of one of a ship he happened to decide to destroy was the one who claimed that he found evidence of some previously-unheard of treasure. It was also very unlikely. But it was definitely something to look into.

Roadhog hated treasure hunting. It was boring and tedious and always followed the same formula. It was predictable. Irritating. But he supposed that the payoff for this treasure would be worth it.

 _After all,_ he thought, popping open another beer, _imagine the look on his face when I destroy it right in front of him._

* * *

 **A/N: I really do apologize that this chapter took two weeks to come out. I had a great amount of difficulty coming up with how to proceed with writing this chapter, which ended up pushing it back a week while I tried to work on it and other things going on in real life. But it's up now! And I have no idea how good it is, but here's hoping it's satisfactory.**

 **If you'd like some updates on the story, or if you'd like to ask questions that'd be answered in a somewhat-timely manner, feel free to check out my Tumblr: nonrealisticallyadept. I'm on Tumblr most often, anyway.**

 **Now, to figure out how to proceed with Chapter 4...**


	4. Fifty-Fifty

It took a few days for the rat to wake up. The days were spent littered with annoyances and extra chores stemming from force-feeding a liquefied diet and from cleaning up the resulting mess a few hours afterward. Roadhog—luckily—had experience in this department, so he was able to handle it well enough, keeping it in the back of his mind at all times.

Other than the added chores, the pleasure of company went otherwise unnoticed. Days were spent manning his ship's sails and plotting course for the next destination, afternoons monitoring the horizon for changes in wave patterns, and nights marveling at the stars far overhead millions of light years away. He kept an eye on the North Star and used it to judge where he was in relation to everywhere else. The sun rose at his front and set at his back-he always enjoyed how it painted the sky in watercolor oranges and pinks.

Then the rat woke up, and the peace of semi-solitude ended.

He didn't even realize he was awake at first when he came down below. He didn't even come over to him until he finished blending his food to a fine, liquefied pulp, and every time, his eyes were closed. When he turned to him now, he was half-leaning out of the hammock, eyes half-closed and bleary but awake enough to be conscious. Roadhog grunted as he lumbered over, watching the rat for any reaction.

The blonde boy grunted, pulling his arm back in and trying to sit up. "Who're you?" he asked hoarsely, pointing his finger at him—the nail naked, removed, red and raw. Roadhog opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, the finger turned upwards. "Oh, oh, don't tell me-you're... I'm bad at names, but you—you're the... the big, boorish bastard booming up rinky-dinky boats across the ocean, right?"

He stared down at him with narrow eyes, and the boy grunted, groaning, moving his hand to rub at his eyes. "Bloody fuck, where am I?"

"You're in my ship. Behave."

He held out the bottle of food to him as he stared up at the ceiling, his orange eyes wandering listlessly. "Ship? A ship made out 'a wood..." he said vaguely, carefully running a hand through his hair. "...That's fucking sweet."

"You're awake," he growled, shoving the bottle into the hammock with him. "Drink."

The rat took up the bottle and squinted at it, bringing it close to his face, as if trying to decipher a confusing riddle. "What is it?" he asked warily, setting it down on his hip so that his fingers could trail from the plastic surface to the oddly-shaped drinking cap. The mixture inside of it was thick and packed with necessities for someone in his situation, but he just woke up in an unfamiliar place after thinking he was going to die. Roadhog didn't blame him for being so careful after that experience. Though he had to admit-the rat was taking this situation better than he expected him to.

"Protein shake," Roadhog said simply. "Grapes, bananas, oatmeal, milk. Only thing your scrappy body will keep down right now."

The rat chuckled for a moment, looking down at his arm with a wry smirk. His hand shook with the effort to remain raised, the tips of his fingers wrapped in bandages to cover up the damage underneath. "Heh, guess I am pretty scrappy right now, aren't I?" he mused.

He grunted, turning his back to him and beginning his trek back to the main deck. There wasn't anything else for him to do here—his 'guest' had his food, and now he had to head back above to keep track of his course. _Kunekune_ was a large girl, after all—she required constant maintenance that he was more than happy to fulfill.

"Oioioi! Wait just a tick!"

The sharpness of the demand ground on his ears, making him release a sigh of pure frustration as he turned around to face him again. The hand was outstretched to him, a request to stop that went unseen until now—it shook in the air as he tried to get it to stay, lingering for just a touch too long, and he gasped as he let it down, half of his body hanging off of the edge of the swaying hammock. "Do you… did you get my arm and leg?" he asked.

From behind his gas mask, his eyes flickered from the desperation on his face to the limpness of his arms, the dangling of the only hand he had and the total lack of symmetry contained in his body—the empty space where an arm should have been but wasn't, and instead ended with a sudden flat surface ringed by a delicate bronze plating. He didn't know any particulars about it, didn't know enough about high-end technology to understand, but he made the wild assumption that it was what a prosthetic was supposed to attach to, where the nerves were supposed to connect and move the arm and the fingers. He assumed, because there was something very similar on his leg, just above where his knee would be.

He was ready to lie until his eyes flickered back to his face—his wide, pleading eyes—and Mako's voice piped up in the back of his head for the first time in weeks. Roadhog grunted, turning his back on the rat and leaving the room, as he called out in disdain, "Okay, I'll take that as a no—that's okay! But, er, if you did—they're made out of wood!"

He wandered about the belly of his ship for a good five minutes, locating where he put the loot from the week before. Set in a fair crate, he found the silk rucksacks bundled up in a bed of citruses, enveloping themselves in a blanket of fresh scents. He reached into the crate and pulled each and every one of them out—prizes, trophies from his excursion—and opened them one by one, unraveling the fabric and poking around their insides. It took him a while to find what he was looking for—a wooden arm and a wooden leg that fit easily in his hands, grainy and carefully designed. Pieces of it were torn apart with reckless abandon, exposing sensitive and fragile circuitry that lay underneath—he lifted his gas mask and leaned down closer, peering into the casing and marveling at the carefulness with which the arm was made.

He doubted that something like this was waterproof. The wood wasn't polished in any way, and it left cracks used for movement between the joints. Rolling it over in his grasp, careful not to let anything fall out, he noticed a word faintly scrawled on one side of it.

 _Junkrat._

So it wasn't a far stretch to call him a rat, after all. But this only confirmed his previous suspicions, and a growl rumbled in the back of his throat, clenching the arm tighter as he stared down at the name. _Junkrat. Junkrat. '_ There's _Junkrat.' '_ Get _Junkrat.'_

He heard a definite crack that drew him back to reality, and when his eyes skimmed around Junkrat's name, he saw cracks forming along the grain of the wood. The wood of a prosthetic arm. The arm that had pieces missing. The leg nestled in the silk that was made of wood and also had pieces missing. He had to force his grip to slacken, pulling his attention away from the rage from the _mistake_ that Junkrat did so long ago and instead focusing on the _now_ for the time being. He took the arm and the leg and made his way to return to the hammock, setting his mask back down.

Junkrat jolted up abruptly when he came back in, turning to face him as soon as he stepped into the room. Roadhog held up the wooden limbs, watching his face as it morphed from cautiousness to excitement, pulling himself from his reclined, relaxed position to sit back up. He held the protein shake in his hand. The bandages that were wrapped around his fingers dangled on the edge of the hammock and rested on the floor like shreds of discarded second skins.

"You found it," he said, relief lightening his voice and his face. He watched as he moved forward, eyes constantly flickering from his limbs to Roadhog and back again. His body lost some of its tension when he set the limbs down onto a nearby crate, a breathy giggle spilling from his throat. "That's my arm and leg." He pointed at them, as if it wasn't obvious enough. "Can I check them out? See if they're fine?"

"Your treasure." His face fell at that, smile turning downwards and brows furrowing closely knit together. His arm went slack, and he fixed him with a dubious expression tainted with a seasoning of disbelief. "Explain."

"So you're after my treasure, too, eh?" He scoffed, rolling onto his back and crossing his arms as best he could with the lack of half of one, breathing out a huff of air. "Of course you are. You and half the population of the world are after half of my treasure. Couldn't help me out outta the kindness of your heart, could you, mate? Bloody hell, there's no sense of common decency around here."

"We had a deal," Roadhog gritted out through clenched teeth. The audacity of this rat— _Junkrat,_ he corrected himself—to act so brashly to somebody who could easily crush his brains under his boot was absolutely appalling. Junkrat turned his gaze back to him, one eyebrow raised in visible confusion, still for a moment before he jolted up, his hand gripping the edge of the dangerously swaying hammock.

"We didn't _make_ a deal," he exclaimed, waving his nub around. "Or—'least, I don't _remember_ making a deal? Me brain's all fuzzy wirin' right now, real annoyin', needs some time to reboot. You know?

"Though if we did make a deal, what would it be?"—he mused to himself, letting himself flip back onto his back, pulling his waves to something more thoughtful. "How much for each person would be good?

"Wait—I got it!"—he shouted, shooting upright with the wide-eyed clarity that could only come with an idea brilliant only in your own head. "How about eighty-twenty? Seems fair enough! This is supposed to be a _great_ score, after all!

"After all, you did _technically_ save my life,"—he added, laying back down and peering over the edge of the hammock, leering up at him with considerable consideration. "So I guess I _do_ owe you for that, right? Right. Right! Wonderful! I'm glad we can come to an agreement!"

"Fifty-fifty," came the gristly answer. Junkrat stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide and body rigid. He basked in the brief silence that followed, heavily laden with disbelief that permeated every ounce of oxygen the scrawny brat breathed.

"What?"

He looked at his face and found himself enjoying the idea of seeing the crippling masterpiece he would be in when everything he worked so hard for was destroyed right before his eyes. If it weren't for that, he didn't think he would be able to continue with this ruse of friendliness. "I want half," he said, as blunt as he could. "And I will take it. If you want to stay alive."

Junkrat's body stiffened up, and he drew himself together, straight-backed as he could and frustration trickling unguarded in his tone. "Are you threatening me?" he asked, giving a smile that didn't settle right on his twisted face. "Because, if you are, and you're threatening to kill me for not telling you anything, I'm still not telling you anything. Dead men tell no tales!—Or so the saying goes. I don't know—if you believe in ghosts—and I'm not saying _I_ do, but if ghosts did exist—then maybe they could talk after all, you know?"

"I'm not threatening you. I'm offering protection."

He paused at that, his body stiff, staring at him in disbelief. The look on his face was absolutely dumb and moronic, a gaping mouth and wide saucer eyes staring right back at him. If he had less control over himself, he would have laughed. As it was, instead, a brief snort slipped through his throat. It took a while for Junkrat to recover, closing his mouth and blinking a few times, gulping down and practically forcing his body to relax. Roadhog came over to him until he was right next to him. He took a sudden sharp breath and leaned back as far away as he could from him, the prospect impossible from the singing of the hammock. Moving away caused him to swing closer, which caused his whole body to tense even as Roadhog leaned down so that he was eye-level with the brat. Junkrat didn't take his eyes off of his mask, back pressed tight against the fabric of the hammock, his left fist clenched even against the aching his fingertips were certain to be feeling. Roadhog stared back at him… and chuckled, straightening up, setting the fallen protein shake back in the hammock by the blonde boy's hip.

The look on his face was priceless.

"Drink," he said as he did before, turning back to the door to leave. "And think."

When Roadhog closed the door and climbed up to the first floor, he couldn't hold it in any longer. He laughed, hard enough that he had to hold his belly to keep himself stable, hard enough that he leaned against one of her masts, hard enough that breath flitted away from his lungs when he finally tried to breathe only to laugh even more and even harder.

* * *

 **A/N: Reviews are greatly appreciated!**

 **Also, hey, look: Only one day late. Progress? Probably not.**


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